


Nothing Else Matters

by Alethnya



Category: V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethnya/pseuds/Alethnya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dara Turner has spent her life fighting the regime that killed her parents. V has spent 20 years plotting vengeance for his stolen life. He teaches her that justice does exist. She teaches him that there's more to life than revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing V for Vendetta, I found myself utterly annoyed by the character of Evey. I started to wonder what the story could have been like if the woman V had met in that alley had been a little stronger and a lot more determined. This story is the product of that.
> 
> Apologies for any errors in grammar or spelling. Even more apologies for any American lapses in my English. This story is both unbetad and un-Britpicked. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.

_“So, I read that the former United States is so desperate for medical supplies that they have allegedly sent several containers filled with wheat and tobacco—a gesture, they said, of good will.”_

 

Dara glanced over at the television, brush pausing just above the crown of her head.

 

_“You wanna know what I think?  Well, you’re listening to my show so I’ll assume you do.”_

 

She rolled her eyes, the brush once again moving with long strokes through her hair.  “We’re listening to your show because we only get one bloody channel you great git.”

 

_“I think it’s high time we let the colonies know what we really think of them.  I think it’s payback time for a little tea party they threw for us a few hundred years ago.  I say we go down to the docks tonight and dump that crap where everything from the Ulcered Sphincter of Asserica belongs—who’s with me?  Who’s bloody with me?”_

 

She pulled her hair into a ponytail high on her head, not quite able to hold back her snort of disgust. 

 

_“Did you like that?_ _USA_ _—Ulcered Sphincter of Asserica.  What else can you say?  I mean, here was a country that had everything.  And now, twenty years later, it’s what?  The world’s biggest leper colony.  Why?”_

 

One boot was tugged on, laced.

 

_“Godlessness—let me say that again—Godlessness.  It wasn’t the war they started…it wasn’t the plague they created—it was judgment.”_

 

The second boot followed its mate.

_“No one escapes their past.  No one escapes judgment.  You think he’s not up there?  You think he’s not watching over this country?  How else can you explain it?  He tested us, and we came through.  We did what we had to do.”_

 

She stood, bringing the belt that had been draped across the bed with her and clasping it round her waist, the black leather scabbard fixed to it bumping against her hip.

 

_“I was there.  I saw it all—immigrants, Muslims, homosexuals, terrorists—disease ridden degenerates.  They had to go!”_

 

“If only they’d taken you with them,” she breathed as she adjusted, swinging the scabbard and the sword it housed into the proper position at her side.

 

_“Strength though unity—unity through faith!  I’m a God-fearing Englishman and I’m goddamned proud of it!”_

 

She reached for the remote with a snort of disgust.  “That’s quite enough of that, thank you very much.”

 

Blessed silence filled the void that was left after Lewis Prothero’s vitriol died away, and Dara breathed a sigh of relief.  The Voice of Britain indeed.  He certainly was not the voice of _her_ Britain.

 

Grabbing her coat from the hook behind her bedroom door, she eased into the supple, worn leather as she left the room, the length of it falling to her ankles and hiding her weapon from view. 

 

Her flat was small but cozy, decorated with an eclectic eye and a haphazard hand—Chinese Silks hung beside Russian iconographic prints; French noir posters were tacked up next to American Indian sand paintings.  That they were all blacklisted items was a source of some pride for her.  In fact, from the art on her walls to the extensive collection of DVD’s tucked neatly onto several racks beside the television, the majority of her apartment could easily have gotten her black-bagged should the Finger ever have reason to search it—which made it all just that much more precious to her. 

 

Crossing the small living room in five strides, her hand was poised above the doorknob when the telephone rang. 

 

“Bugger,” she muttered, knowing instinctively who was calling and why.  She suffered a long moment of internal debate, but eventually decided that she’d better answer.  She had already ignored two calls that evening and even she wasn’t sure she could talk her way out of the lecture that a third would earn her.  Stalking back across the room, she lifted the receiver from the cradle and brought it to her ear.

 

“Hello, Will…Liz.”

 

“Where the bloody hell’ve you been?  We’ve been calling you all bloody night!”

 

Wincing at the raw, paternal anger in Will’s voice, she shifted the phone to her other ear.  “Right, sorry ‘bout that—got outta work a bit late.”

 

“Nonsense,” a second, feminine voice chimed in.  “You didn’t pick up because you didn’t want to hear what we had to say.”

 

“What am I, psychic?” Dara protested, despite the truth of the accusation.  “How the hell am I supposed to know what you’re gonna say?”

 

“Don’t play stupid with us, my girl,” Liz snapped, “It’s both annoying and unbecoming.  I wish there were time at present to give you the dressing down which you so richly deserve, but I’m afraid we haven't that luxury.”

 

Dara tensed, recognizing the urgency of Liz’s tone.  “What’s happened?”

 

“Nothing yet,” Will said, the same resolved wariness in his voice.  “And we’re still meeting at the normal time and place…but you’re to go straight there.  No wandering tonight, Dara—and that’s an order.”

 

“You’re making a lot of fuss over nothing.  I had a hell of a day, so I wasn’t planning on any wandering tonight anyway.”  The lie came out so easily that she almost felt guilty.  It wasn’t that she disliked lying in general--she was actually quite good at it, truth be told--but she absolutely hated lying to _them_. 

 

“Don’t give me that load of rubbish,” Will snapped.  “You’d walk the streets if you were on your last bloody legs, Dara Turner, and don’t pretend otherwise!  You’re gonna hang up the phone and then do exactly as you please, as you always do.  Don’t know why we even bother trying to keep you in line!”

 

Irritation burned away the last of her patience and Dara let out a growl of frustration.  “Keep me in line?  What the hell do you mean, keep me in line?  I’m not a child and I _know_ this game!  Been fighting this fight longer than just about anyone, haven’t I?"

 

“We know that, Dara…”

 

“Do you really?” Dara cut in, quite thoroughly angry.  “Because it sure doesn’t seem like it!  Fucking hell, you two…someone’s gotta be out there keeping watch!”

 

“Have you been paying attention at all today, luv?”  Will’s voice was sharp.  “Yellow Code tonight, which means that the Finger’s gonna be out in droves once curfew’s past, and it’s just gone half nine.”

 

“So?”

 

“So?”  She could feel the glare through the phone. “Christ, Dara…d’you _want_ to get black bagged?”

 

“Yeah…I’d like to see them try,” Dara scoffed, rolling her eyes.

 

“Well I wouldn’t,” Liz broke in, voice hard.  “And talk like that makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable, Dara.  You’re getting overconfident, and that’s dangerous.  It doesn’t matter how good you are or how strong you are—it could happen to any of us.”

 

“You think I don’t know that?” Dara snapped, “You really think I don’t know that every night could be the last?  Well let me assure you that I absolutely do.  I know perfectly well that I could die out there tonight.  But that doesn’t change anything.  It doesn’t change what I do.  And it certainly isn’t gonna change the fact that I’ll be out there tonight, doing what I do.  I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanna hear, but it’s the way things are.  So you can save your breath trying to convince me otherwise.”

 

Neither Will nor Liz doubted her determination—the girl had a will of iron and the tenacity of a bulldog.  But while they couldn’t fault her for her dedication, neither could they embrace her recklessness nor her foolhardy obstinacy.  Her stubborn refusal to comprehend the concept of strategic retreat had long ago proven to be her greatest weakness.

 

“Dara,” Will deliberately pitched his voice low and soft, hoping that an appeal would work better than an order. “Luv…you’ve gotta understand—we need you safe.  You’re the best we’ve got, and we can’t afford to have you taking unnecessary risks.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the best if I didn’t take unnecessary risks,” she retorted.  “So unless you plan on coming over here and tying me down, Will, you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

 

“It’s not just because of the curfew that we want you to stay out of sight tonight, Dara,” Liz interjected swiftly, suspecting that they were very close to being hung up on.  “Something is going to happen tonight—something big.  We’ve heard rumors…”

 

“I don’t care if tonight just so happens to be the Second Coming of Christ,” Dara cut in, impatient to be done with the conversation. “I’m wandering and that’s the end of it.  Quite frankly, all this conversation’s doing is wasting my time.  I’ll see you soon…same time, same place.”

 

“Dara…”

 

“Goodbye,” she said with unflinching finality, then pulled the phone from her ear and mashed the off button, severing the connection.  She dropped the phone back onto its cradle then headed for the door.  By the time the phone started ringing again, she was already half way to the lift down the hall.


	2. Chapter Two

Keeping carefully to the shadows, Dara made her way down the eerily empty streets of London.  Once upon a time, these very streets would have been teeming with life, even at so late an hour.  But once upon a time, London had been a very different place, governed by very different rules.

 

It had been twenty years since Norsefire had taken control of the country. Twenty years since what _was_ had been razed to the ground in favor of what now stood—and over those years, she’d learned a great deal more about human nature than she’d ever wanted or needed to.

 

She’d been front and center for the show, growing up just as one of the world’s greatest civilizations crumbled to the ground, and a monstrosity of hate and greed rose up in its stead.  She’d lost neighbors, friends and—most devastatingly—her family to the Fingermen.

 

Seventeen years had passed since the night her parents had been black bagged and dragged away, and it was their loss that had spurred Dara to follow in their footsteps.  They had been marked for death by their participation in the resistance movement—a legacy that Dara had embraced wholeheartedly.  Informally adopted by the leaders of the group her parents had died for, Dara had spent the majority of her childhood training to become the fighter that she was.

 

Norsefire had killed her parents, and she was determined that no one else would suffer that fate—not if it was within her power to save them.  Thus the reason she went out nearly every night, stalking the shadows of London--wandering, as the group had come to call it.  She helped where she could, she fought when she had to, and she made as much of a difference as she possibly could, in any little way that she could.  It wasn't much, in the grand scheme of things...but it was all she had.

 

The shuffle of a footstep snapped her instantly from her thoughts and she stopped short when a man turned the corner from the main road in front of her, illuminated only marginally by the streetlamp behind him.

 

“And what’ve we got here?”

 

Her hand crossed her body, fingers crawling beneath her coat to wrap reflexively around the hilt the sword still hidden beneath the length leather.  Experience had long ago taught her to be prepared for the strike no matter how innocent a man appeared.  Not all government agents wore their allegiance for the world to see. 

 

However, this particular situation was an easy read.  For, as Will had so kindly pointed out, there was a Yellow Coded Curfew in effect—at home by ten, _or else_ —and it was well past ten now.

 

Thus, the man before her was either a fool or a Fingerman, and the arrogance in his voice and the swagger in his step made it an easy call.  Muscles tensing in preparation, Dara turned to follow him with sharp eyes as he began to circle her.

 

Apparently unsatisfied with her silence, the man narrowed his gaze at her.  “You deaf, girlie?  I’m talking to you!”

 

Cocking a brow at him, Dara watched even the tiniest flick of his fingers, gauging…measuring.  “Were you?  I'm sorry…I was paralyzed with not caring very much.”

 

“Ooh, you’re a cheeky one, you are.  Not too bright though, luv…not too bright at all.  There’s a curfew tonight, y’know.”

 

Squaring her shoulders, Dara faced him fully, her weight carefully balanced on the balls of her feet, ready.  “Come to think of it, I had heard something like that, yeah,” she said smoothly, voice betraying nothing.  “But, again, there was that whole thing about not caring very much.”

 

The man gave a throaty chuckle.  “Better and better,” he murmured.  “What you doing out so late, girlie?”

 

“Just taking a bit of a walk,” Dara said with a shrug.  “Needed some fresh air.”

 

“Taking a bit of a walk?”  The man chuckled again, halting the slow circle he’d been carving around her.  “What you think on that, Willy?”

 

“Load of bollocks is what I think,” a second voice, this one lower and rougher, sounded from just behind her.  “Total load of bollocks.”

 

Dara instinctively turned, angling her body to allow her a clear view of both men.  She held her position, quickly rethinking the plan of attack she’d been forming in her head.  Fighting two was very different than fighting one—though she was still confident that she could dispatch them quickly and efficiently.

 

“Yeah,” the first man agreed, giving Dara a lecherous grin.  “What you think, luv?  Think maybe you might see to us before you get back to your walk?  My friend here, see…he’s kinda sick…”

 

“Real sick—bad case of the blues,” the second interrupted, leering suggestively before darting forward to grab Dara’s hand, shoving it roughly against his groin.  “Feel?”

 

Jerking her hand away, Dara retreated a few steps.   She instinctively dropped backwards into a fighting stance even as she fought very hard to contain her anger. “Touch me again and I’ll break every fucking bone in your hand, mate.”

 

“Well looky there, Willy…kitty’s got claws.”

 

The second man—Willy—shook his head.  “I do believe she just threatened us, Tom.”

 

“That she did, that she did,” the first—Tom—affirmed.  “You know what that means, dontcha?  It means we get to exercise our own judicial discretion.”  He pulled out a small, black wallet, flipping it open to reveal a Finger badge.

 

“And you get to swallow it,” Willy added, brandishing his own badge.

 

Dara rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her utter disdain.  “Sorry to disappoint,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, “but I already knew you were Fingermen.  And quite frankly, that means absolute fuck-all to me.  So go on...touch me again.  I dare you.”

 

Both men laughed then, and laughed hard.

 

“Did you hear that?”  Willy took a step toward her.  “Not scared at all this one.”

 

“No,” Tom agreed, also stepping toward her.  “We’ll just have to see what we can do about that.  I promise you this, girlie...if you’re not the sorriest piece of ass in all of London by sun up…” he pulled out a knife, flicking it open with practiced ease, “…you’ll certainly be the sorest.”

 

Well.  That really was that, then. 

 

“See, I really think you’ve got that one backward.”  One hand shot out, knocking the knife aside, followed almost immediately by a kick that sent Tom flying backwards to land dazed, but otherwise unhurt, on the pavement.  Spinning toward Willy, she dropped again to a fighting crouch, a smirk on her face.  “Of course, that’s assuming you actually live to see the morning.   If I were you, I’d make a run for it.”

 

“Tough words, kitty cat.” Willy glanced back at his friend, then pulled out his own knife, taking a large step toward her, cocky enough to ignore the subtle warnings of body language that any schooled fighter would have immediately recognized.  “Well come on then, luv—give it me good.”

 

“Okay,” Dara sighed, “but I did warn you.”  A booted foot lashed out, connecting squarely with Willy’s waggling jaw, his head snapping to the side and sending him sprawling backwards into the wall behind him.  A second kick landed in the center of his face, the delicate bone and cartiledge there shattering and he slumped to the ground, dead before he hit the pavement.  Turning to her initial antagonist, she bared her teeth in a feral smile.  “And you, Tom?  You wanna be given it good too?”

 

“Fucking hell,” the now suitably impressed Fingerman breathed, hands dropping to his waist to retrieve the pistol tucked there.  “Joe! A little help…”

 

Dara discovered all too quickly who Joe was when a bat slammed hard into her ribs.  She dropped to her knees on the pavement with a grunt of pain, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. 

 

 _Should’ve been paying closer attention._ The words rang through her head, angry and frustrated.  To be caught off guard in general was bad enough…but to be caught off guard by one of these inexpert street thugs was simply inexcusable.

 

She barely had time to curse her own stupidity before the next blow came, the end of the bat ramming hard into her abdomen and knocking all the wind from her lungs.  She fell backwards against the brick wall of the building behind her, gasping to regain the air that she’d been robbed of.  She vaguely heard orders being barked, and then the bat settled lengthwise at her throat, cutting off what little air she’d been able to suck in.

 

“The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him…”

 

“What the fuck?”  Her first attacker spun around.  “Sod off, mate…official Finger business…”

 

“…disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smoked with bloody execution...”

                                                                                                                                                                               

The voice flitted across her consciousness, but she was too busy fighting for breath to pay it much mind.  The same however, could not be said for her remaining assailant.   He turned away at the sound, the bat dropping away from her. Dara collapsed backwards, bracing herself against the wall as blessed air streamed back into her burning lungs.

 

Her eyes settled on the one called Joe, the one with the bat still clasped tightly in his hand. Rage colored her world in shades of crimson, giving her the strength to regain to her feet.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom thrown backwards like a rag doll…but she paid it no mind, all of her attention focused on the man directly in front of her.

 

She drew her sword, the humming vibration of the cold steel singing through the night as it left the scabbard.  “Oi!  Joe!” 

 

The man in question spun round, eyes wide and terrified.  The hands that clutched the bat were shaking almost uncontrollably.

 

Dara had rarely seen anything that gave her more pleasure.

 

A deeply satisfied smirk accompanied the practiced twirl of the blade that sent his weapon flying across the alley.  She lunged again immediately, this movement a quick, fluid forward thrust that hit its target with unerring accuracy.  Meeting Joe’s eyes with her own blazing ones, Dara leaned in close to him, her lips brushing his ear.  “Just deserts, _Joe_ ,” she growled.  “Just deserts.”

 

Lifting one booted foot to rest against his thigh, she shoved him backwards, extracting her sword from his chest.  He was dead by the time his body hit the pavement, the blood which had been flowing freely from the heart-wound already beginning to slow. 

 

Eyes trained downward upon the man she had just killed, breath still coming in labored gasps, Dara suddenly realized that she was not alone in the alley—her good Samaritan tarried still.  Slowly drawing her gaze upward, she took quick and careful note of the man she now owed her life to.  He—like she—was dressed all in black.  However, it was there that the similarities in their chosen garb ended.

 

Her clothing consisted of an eminently serviceable pair of jeans and a simple cotton jumper beneath her long leather duster.  The man standing across from her, on the other hand, looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a costume shop.  From the boots and the breeches, to the doublet, cloak and hat, her rescuers garb harkened to the seventeenth century…in a very twenty-first century sort of way.

 

And then there was his face.

 

Her eyes were drawn to his—or rather, to the blank, black eyes of the white-faced and eternally grinning Guy Fawkes mask he wore.  She was English—it was easy enough to recognize that caricatured face; even Norsefire’s best efforts had been unable to completely wipe the traditions of Bonfire Night from popular memory.

 

The mask stared back at her, as unmoving as the man whose face it hid. 

 

After a very long moment, the chin of the mask dipped slightly, the black sweep of the pageboy wig she only then noticed shifting along the pointed jaw-line as it angled down and slightly away from her.  “A hit,” his booted foot lunged out, turning her felled foe upon his back with a firm shove.  The grinning mask tilted back up to her and she could almost swear that she saw the matching smile on the lips beneath it.  “A very palpable hit.”

 

The ghost of a grin curved her lips as she pulled the cloth she always carried from her pocket, drawing her blade through it with practiced ease before tucking it away and re-sheathing her weapon.  “An Englishman who knows his Shakespeare,” she acknowledged with a nod, “how refreshing.”

 

Again, she swore she could see him smile.  “Formidable of both hand and mind,” that oddly compelling voice complimented, clearly impressed by her recognition of the quotation.  The masked man bent at the waist in a formal bow.  “I salute you.”

 

Eyes drifting down to his kill, Dara stepped over to the body, dropping to one knee and retrieving the knife still embedded in the corpse’s neck with a sharp twist of her wrist.  Studying the blade for a moment—admiring the austere beauty if its simple lines—she weighed it expertly in her palm as she stood.  “Gorgeous,” she commented, offering it to its owner.  “And perfectly balanced.  Thanks for the help—your timing was impeccable.”

 

The masked man accepted the knife from her, returning it to rest beside its fellows in his belt.  “’Twas nothing,” he demurred.  “Any true English gentlemen would have done the same.”

 

Lips quirking upwards, Dara eyed the fallen man she’d just removed his knife from, and then looked back to her rescuer.  “Yeah…right.  Most English gentlemen I know would’ve run the other way as fast as they could—they certainly wouldn’t’ve risked being black bagged for a complete stranger.” 

 

A short bark of laughter issued from behind Fawkes’ ever-smiling mouth.  “An unfortunate testament to the travesty of this, our reality,” the blank, black eyes were back on her again.  “England is not what She once was and neither are Her gentlemen—but I have hope that both shall one day reclaim the dignity that was once so wholly a part of them.”

 

“A day that can’t come fast enough,” Dara agreed.  Silence fell again, and she took advantage of it to study the man before her with ever-mounting curiosity.  “So who’re you, then?”

 

“Who?” The masked man intoned the word gravely, though with an undercurrent of amusement.  “Who is but the form following the function of what, and _what_ I am is a man in a mask.”

   
Dara arched a brow at him.  “Well, yeah,” she acknowledged tartly. “I can see that.”

  
The masked man dipped his chin in agreement.  “Of course you can,” he said.  “I am not questioning your powers of observation.  I was merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man _who_ he is.”

 

“Touché,” she laughed.  “But that wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.  What’s your name?”

 

“What’s in a name?” he mused, backing a few steps away from her.  “Certainly not the mettle or the meaning of a man, thus—on this most auspicious of nights—permit me, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the _character_ of this dramatis persona.” He paused, bowing his head, hands clasped together before him. 

 

Brow arching, Dara crossed her arms over her chest, her expression one of hesitant confusion.  “What...”

 

“Voilà!”

 

The interruption was unexpected, and Dara took a startled step back.

 

Flipping his cloak with practiced ease, the masked man flung his arms wide.  “In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified,” his voice lilted upward, and the words began to come faster and louder and angrier, “and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.” 

 

Spinning toward the wall, he lunged at an old Norsefire poster that had likely been stuck to it for years, carving a perfect vee into the already crumbling paper with one adroitly wielded blade.

 

He paused after re-sheathing the knife, and the entire alley—the entire _night_ —seemed to have gone deathly silent.  A moment later, a slow and deep exhalation broke the stillness.  The masked man tilted his head back toward her, offering the profile of the mask to the street lamp’s glow. “The only verdict is vengeance,” he said in a low rumble, the resonance of the words sending shivers along Dara’s spine.  “A vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.”

 

Another pause, and then he laughed; the sound a strange mix of delight and self-consciousness.  “Verily,” he began again, lighter of both tone and air now, “this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose,” he drew his hat from his head, dipping her a gallant bow, “so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.”

 

Silence.

 

Nearly a full minute of silence followed—a full minute during which Dara struggled to decide what, if anything, she should say.  Because no matter how odd it had been, she felt that such a carefully prepared and enthusiastically delivered speech deserved a response that was just as intelligently worded and passionately delivered.  Unfortunately, she was feeling neither impassioned nor clever. 

 

“Right,” she paused, grasping for _something_ to say.  “Nice…alliteration.” 

 

“My thanks,” he said, and she got the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her.  “And now, my dear, I would ask the same of you…to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

 

“Dara,” she said, offering him a grin.  “Dara Turner.” 

 

He nodded once, that sharply pointed chin bobbing in acceptance and thanks.

 

“Dara,” he breathed.  “A lovely name.”  The black eyes of the mask settled upon the faint bruises already beginning to bloom on her neck.  “Tell me, Dara, are you hurt?”

 

One hand lifted to rub lightly against the tender skin, self-conscious beneath the weight of his gaze.  “I’m fine,” she said with a small, dismissive shake of her head, “a little bruised, but fine—thanks to you.”

 

“Please,” he protested, “I merely played my part—think nothing of it.  But tell me, my dear…do you like music?”

 

The question—apropos of nothing—caught her off guard.  Frowning a little, she nodded.  “Yeah...why?”

 

“I am a musician of sorts, you see.  And tonight, I am giving a very special concert and would be most delighted if you would accompany me.”

 

“A musician?”  She looked him up and down, mildly disappointed.  She’d assumed he was like her—from some resistance group with a flair for the dramatic that she just hadn’t heard of.  “What sort of musician?  That the reason for the costume?”

 

Again, the unshakable certainty that he was smiling even wider than the mask he wore.  “But of course,” he replied with a flourish.  “It is, as I said, to be a very special performance.  And as for what sort of musician...percussion is my particular specialty…but tonight…tonight I shall conduct the entire orchestra in all her sweeping glory!”

 

There was something irresistible about him—despite the fact that he was without question the oddest man she had ever met in her life.  In the end, it wasn’t even a question really.  With a smile and a nod, she committed herself to being his companion for the evening, following along after his beckoning figure—following all the way to the rooftop of an office building, standing at his side and staring out over the skyline of London.

 

“And here we are,” he doffed his hat, dropping it to the ground beside him.

 

“It’s beautiful up here,” Dara commented absently, eyes skimming over the vista before her.

 

“A more perfect stage could not be asked for.  I think you shall find the acoustics particularly satisfactory.”

 

Blinking owlishly, slightly puzzled by both their location and the man himself, Dara glanced around feeling more than a little confused.  “I don’t see an orchestra.”

 

“My dear Dara, your powers of observation continue to serve you well.  Indeed there is none to be seen…but it is there.  Oh, I assure you, the orchestra is all assembled, and waits only for the right moment to begin.”

 

Tilting her head to study his profile, Dara shivered slightly at the odd edge in his voice.  “The right moment?”

 

“Yes,” he said, “ _my_ moment.”  Lifting his eyes high, he pointed toward the gilded and blindfolded statue crowning the Old Bailey.  “It is to Madame Justice that I dedicate this concerto—in honor of the holiday she seems to have taken from these parts, and in recognition of the imposter that stands in her stead.”  Slowly, that masked face turned toward her.  “Do you know what day it is, Dara?”

 

Another of those bizarre, incongruous questions—but she answered him nonetheless.  “November the fourth.”

 

Just then, Big Ben began to chime, sounding the midnight hour in his sonorous, ancient voice.  V went still at the sound.  “Not any more,” he breathed, the words a mere whisper.  And then, in a stronger and strangely unnerving voice—“Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot…I know of no reason, why the gunpowder treason should ever…be…forgot.”

 

Not knowing what to say…or even if she was expected to say anything, Dara kept her lips firmly shut, watching as V drew a conductor’s baton from the pocket of his doublet.  Tapping it upon one of the pipes beside him, as if calling as yet invisible players to attention, he raised his arms high.

 

“First the strings,” he murmured, his arms beginning to rise and fall rhythmically. “Yes…yes…the strings…the strings…”

 

Ears straining, Dara frowned even deeper.  “I don’t hear any…”

 

“Wait for it!” V interrupted. “Now the brass…ah, yes…the brass… _now_ can you hear it?”

 

And suddenly, amazingly, she could. It was the 1812 Overture, a piece she knew well.  Sucking in a lungful of cold air, Dara surged forward, hands curling over the sides of the balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof.  “I can hear it,” she breathed, eyes seeking out the source of the music.

 

When she did—when she connected the sound to the loudspeakers placed on every street corner—her head whipped around, staring in wonder at the masked man moving his arms in perfect time with the music.  “V…how…?”

 

“Hush, my dear…hush…for now, we await the best part of all.  Turn around, Dara, turn around…you certainly won’t want to miss it.”

 

She did as she was told, turning back around to face London.  “Miss what?”

 

“Wait for it,” V repeated his earlier censure, his voice rising.  “And now, here it is…the crescendo!”

 

And then it happened.  Just as the music exploded into the most familiar chords of the overture, so too did the Old Bailey.  Bombs went off all along the length of the building, sending it crumbling and crashing to the ground, the explosions almost perfectly timed to the music sounding defiantly through the night.  The fireworks came next, exploding across the sky in an array of colors—a pyrotechnic display such as she had never seen before. 

 

Dara watched the spectacle with wide, unbelieving eyes.  It was an odd juxtaposition, V’s delighted laughter behind her, chaos raining down before her.  Only when the last mortar had exploded, branding the sky above the raging inferno with a red V embedded within an equally red circle, did Dara turn around.

 

V stood behind her, his arms raised high and suspended, motionless at the level of his shoulders.  Black gloved hands reached outward, as if he would draw the image before his eyes to himself—as if he would embrace the fire that burned below them.  Dara watched him for long moments before bringing herself to speak.

 

“You did that.”

 

The words shook him from his reverie, and his arms finally dropped to his sides, the baton stowed swiftly back inside his doublet.  “I did,” he affirmed, calmly—proudly. 

 

“Why?”

 

The question surprised him.  Not because she asked for an explanation—that he had expected—but because, instead of the accusation he had anticipated, it was asked with nothing more than honest curiosity.  “Because, my dear, it needed to be done.”

 

“Needed to be done,” she echoed, almost beneath her breath, studying this enigmatic man before her with probing eyes.  “Needed to be done why?”

 

“For the people,” V answered simply.  “And for England.  Because the abomination that has taken both hostage must not be allowed to stand.”

 

So she had been right all along.  He _was_ just like her.  “Revolution,” she murmured, excited.  “You’re talking about revolution—about taking Norsefire down.”  She turned to look once more over the smoldering ruin of the Old Bailey, then back at her companion.  “And about bloody time, I’d say,” she said with certainty, and grim satisfaction.

 

His entire bearing shifted then, the angle of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, revealing clearly that her words had pleased him.  “It is indeed,” he murmured, satisfaction coloring the words.  “Dare I hope that you share my vision?”

 

“Oh, I do,” Dara said, grinning slightly. “If your vision is an England free of Norsefire, then yeah, I really do indeed.”

 

V was silent, and Dara could feel the eyes behind the mask measuring her.

 

“I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence,” he said at last.  “And as such, I think, perhaps, fate has dealt me a prodigious boon this night by guiding me to you, my dear.  Tell me though, for I cannot help but wonder—do not you find me a trifle…mad?”

 

The fact that he actually sounded self-conscious nearly made her laugh—it also assuaged any doubts she had about his mental state.  The truly insane don’t know they’re insane after all.  “Though this be madness, yet there is method in't,” she quoted, her smile broadening.  “Everyone thought Hamlet was a nutter too,” she continued, “but that’s only because they couldn’t see the big picture, wasn’t it?”

 

“And you can see the big picture, can you?”

 

She grinned.  “Nope, I was just giving you the benefit of the doubt.  It’d be awfully rude of me to tell you I think you’re completely barmy when you’ve only just saved my life, wouldn’t it?”

 

He laughed, and this time, there was real fondness in it.  “Oh my dear,” V breathed, his words bathed in admiration, “you are a happenstance that I could never have foreseen—indeed, that I could never have imagined.  I think I must give the greatest of thanks to the powers that set your feet to the dark and dangerous pavement of this great city upon this night, of all nights.”

 

She wished that it wasn’t, but his words were a stark reminder of the duty that had driven her from her door in the first place, and her smile faltered.  Brow creasing, she glanced down at her watch, noting that it was nearly fifteen past midnight.  She had a meeting on nearly the opposite end of the city—and less than an hour left in which to get to it. 

 

“What has upset you?”

 

The concern in his voice warmed her from the inside out, and she marveled at the strength of the affinity she already felt for this strange masked man.  It was because of that new and still tenuous bond—paired, of course, with his loudly proclaimed desire for revolution—that she actually considered telling him the truth.  However, that urge to share the reason for her sudden solemnity was quickly and easily suppressed. She had absolutely no doubt that this man before her would make a powerful ally to them, as they would to him…but she simply couldn’t reveal anything without discussing it with the group first.

 

Thus, it was with a small shrug and a light smile that she returned her gaze to him.  “Nothing really,” she said, “Just realized how late it’s getting is all.  I should be getting home.”

 

A siren blared nearby, followed swiftly by several more. “Especially considering what just happened,” she continued.  “The streets are gonna be crawling with Fingermen.”

 

“Yes,” V agreed with a sigh, “I daresay they shall.”  He moved forward, coming to stand beside her to watch the nearly unending line of black government vehicles tearing down the street below.  After a few long moments, he tilted his head toward her.  “I do not like to think of you traversing such treacherous conditions on your own,” he said.  “Would you, Dara Turner, allow me to escort you home?  I feel it is the very least I can do in return for the very great pleasure of your company this evening.”

 

She was, at the same time, both frustrated and delighted by his offer.  The prospect of a bit more time in his company birthed the delight…but the hindrance that such company would be to her purpose fueled the frustration.  In the end though, the enticement of the former overcame the inconvenience of the latter, and she gave him a bright smile.  “That’d be lovely,” she said, and meant it.

 

After all, it would be simple enough to slip back out into the shadows once he had left her at her door.

 

“Well then, my dear,” he paused just long enough to sweep his hat from the ground, donning it with a flourish and then offering her his arm with a gallantry that was all charm, “shall we depart?  The Finger shall most certainly begin cordoning off the area, and I should hate to rescue you from one threat only to deliver you into another. ”

 

Her fingers had slipped around the solid strength of his arm before the idea to do so had even fully formed in her mind.  The movement brought her closer to him than she had been yet and she stared up into the black-screened eye slits of the mask intensely. “I don’t know why,” she said, her voice low, “but I trust you.  And I don’t think you’d let that happen.”

 

For a split second, he stilled beneath her touch, the only hint that there was a living man beneath all the black a tremulous exhalation of breath that would have spoken volumes had she known him better.  It lasted only for the barest of moments though, and then the life flowed back into him, the muscles beneath her fingers shuddering beneath her touch.  The mask dipped infinitesimally toward her, and she found herself wishing with striking intensity to be able to see the eyes that she could feel burning into hers.

 

“Indeed I would not, Dara.”  His voice was low, heavy with something she could not identify.  “Indeed I would not.”

 

Without another word, he turned them toward the door by which they had ascended to the rooftop, and Dara once again let him lead her through the building and out into the night.


	3. Chapter Three

V kept watch upon the door of Dara's building from the darker recesses of the alley across the street even after she was safely ensconced within.  He did not like to linger, but concern for her kept his feet firmly planted upon the pavement with his eyes locked unblinkingly upon the glass doors through which she had disappeared.  He had taken great pains to avoid Norsefire's streetcams, but he was not infallible.  If they had been seen, she would reap the lion's share of the consequences.  It had been a sobering realization when it had come, and he immediately knew that it had been unfair to bring her along.

 

Though having someone at his side to bear witness to the opening salvo of his grand plan had been...gratifying.  In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined that someone like her existed—someone who had looked upon that which he had wrought with acceptance and even—dare he say it—enthusiasm.  _A kindred spirit,_ his mind whispered to him, even as the cold, rational side of his nature scoffed at such an absurdity.  He knew extraordinarily little about her, aside from the fact that she knew her Shakespeare and was a dab hand at the sword. 

 

That last bit was a source of some interest to him.  She had wielded her blade with an expertise that he had admired, and an efficiency that he had recognized.  This was a woman who had killed before…of that he had absolutely no doubt. 

 

But where had one so young acquired such proficiency?

 

It was a question that had hung at the back of his thoughts all evening, and one to which he had been able to posit no satisfactory answers.  Weapons such as the one she carried had been outlawed long ago, and he doubted there were any left in England who would have willingly offered their services to teach her such handiness with a blade.

 

She was an mystery to him.  A fascinating enigma…and V did so love a good puzzle.

 

The bleating cry of a siren in the distance shattered the stillness of the night, its proximity shaking him from his thoughts and reminding him that such loitering was reckless on this night of all nights.  He was just on the verge of leaving when a movement from the shadows on the opposite side of the street caught his attention.  The eyes behind the mask widened in surprise, then immediately narrowed in suspicion as the very object of his musings slipped back out into the night he had so recently delivered her from.  He watched in silence, barely daring to breathe, as she looked both ways up and down the street, her eyes blazingly blue in the fluorescence of the streetlamp.  After a moment, apparently satisfied that all was clear, she reached up and drew a black hood over her hair and began to make her way down the street, hugging the buildings and keeping to the darkness where she could. 

 

V, suspicions mounting, immediately set his feet after her, tailing her through the shadows.

 

Had it been something more sinister than fate that had thrown her into his path?  Could she be an agent for the very government he sought to overthrow?  Could she even now be on her way to betray him?

 

The questions slithered through his mind as he followed her, each one eliciting a strange mix of anger and disappointment.  It seemed unlikely, all things considered—but he had long ago learned that one could never be too careful. 

 

When she made a sudden and unexpected turn into one of the newer cemeteries—and London had an ever-increasing number of them—V arched a brow in surprise.  What could she possibly have to do in a cemetery at this hour?

 

Still shadowing her, though from an even greater distance now, V made his way past the headstones and monuments, past small marble plaques and great stone angels alike.  His eyes never left the slight figure ahead of him, his mind struggling to find a reason why the hurried pace with which she had hastened along the streets had slowed, and why she was even now looking about her warily, her hand resting with undisguised intent upon the hilt of the sword she had drawn her coat back to reveal.

 

When she stopped, so did he, slipping behind the sheltering bulk of a nearby grave marker.  Her hand dug into the pocket of her coat and she drew out a cell phone, snapping it open and bringing it to her ear.

 

“I’m late, I know,” she said without greeting whoever was on the other end of the line, “but I’m almost there.”

 

V, his heightened senses being what they were, could make out the faint mumble of the voice on the other end of the conversation, though he could not make out what was said.

 

“Oh…right.  Yeah…yeah…I know about it.  It was one hell of a show, wasn’t it?”  She paused, laughed lightly.  “And actually, I need to talk to you about that…”

 

A twig snapped, and instantly her attention was drawn in the direction the sound had come from.  Frowning into the darkness, she scanned the area carefully.  “It's gonna hafta wait though,” she murmured, and now V’s attention was drawn from her to the armed men that suddenly appeared from the shadows.  “The location is compromised.  Get out.  Be in touch soon.”

 

She snapped the phone shut and stowed it back in her pocket.  Drawing her sword, she dropped to the same stance that V had seen in the alley—all wary readiness and quiet strength.  “Hallo, lads,” she greeted, sounding surprisingly pleasant, given the circumstances.  “Lovely night for a stroll, eh?”

 

“Don’t move,” one of the men—a pair of uniformed beat cops—intoned gravely, pistol trained unerringly upon Dara.  “You’re under arrest.  Drop the sword.”

 

They had closed on her now, pinning her in against the mausoleum at her back.  If she was concerned by the guns pointed her direction, she didn’t show it.  She smirked at the command.

 

“If it's all the same to you, I think I'll hold onto it.”  She leaned slightly onto the balls of her feet, her grip tightening on the sword.  “I'm quite attached to the old girl, y'see.”

 

“Put down your weapon, or we’ll be forced to shoot.”

 

Dara's lips tightened into a grimace of displeasure.  “It’d really be better for you if you just walked away now—I’d honestly hate to have to kill you.”

 

The lead officer’s eyes narrowed.  “I repeat…put your weapon down, or we _will_ shoot.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Dara sighed, reluctant but resigned.  “For your sakes, I hope at least one of you’s a fair shot.”

 

She lunged then, striking out with the same precision that she had displayed in the alley.

 

V watched the fight, in awe of her all over again.  She was a deadly beautiful thing to behold as she spun and lunged and struck.  There was a style and fluidity to her every movement that was, quite frankly, magnificent—as was the presence of mind she showed, always managing to keep one of the officers between herself and the other, effectively ensuring that neither would fire on her for fear of hitting his partner.

 

In fact, he found himself waxing positively poetic, certain that in such lethal beauty, there were sonnets just waiting to be written.

 

Without even realizing it, he had moved toward the fight.  Habitual caution had fled in the face of mesmerized captivation, and it was only when her wide, shocked eyes met his and the vicious poetry of her onslaught came to a screeching halt that he realized what he had done.  Not only had he moved without conscious volition—an unforgivable lapse for a man like him—but he had also just startled her out of the advantage.

 

A well aimed kick caught the blade of her sword, knocking the hilt from her grip and forcing her attention away from him and back to the fight.  Disarmed now, Dara was left dodging blows from either side.  Ducking one inexpertly directed punch, she rolled across the grass, collecting one of pistols she had relieved the officers of as she went.  She came up firing.

 

A stray bullet ricocheted off the wing of the stone angel V had taken cover behind, sending dust and gravel raining down upon his head--clearly, her weapons proficiency did not extend to firearms

 

In the silence that followed the last shot, V saw immediately that what she lacked in accuracy, she’d quite made up for with enthusiasm—she’d emptied the magazine in quick succession, leaving both officers lying on the grass beside the mausoleum.  One was clearly dead, and V looked quickly away from the grim sight.  The other officer had also been hit, though V could still see his chest rising and falling erratically.

 

Dara, the still extended pistol shaking in her hands, let out a shuddering breath.  After a long moment, she dropped her arms to her sides before moving to stand over the-- _regretfully--_ still living officer.  Leaning down, she pulled a back up magazine from his belt.  Ejecting the empty and then fumbling the new one into place, she stepped across him, one boot on either side of his chest and took careful aim, firing a single shot with far greater accuracy than she had showed earlier.

 

At that point, the officer finally cooperated.  His chest rose and fell once more, then…nothing.

 

There was something far, far colder about this death than any other he’d seen her mete out that night.  The other deaths had been in the heat of battle.  This…this had been an execution.

 

He lifted his eyes to Dara’s face, reading her expression as she stared down at the man she’d just murdered.  Regret was etched into every line of her countenance and poured off of her in waves so thick that he could feel them even from where he stood.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice low and rough, her breath hitching in her chest.  “Really, I am.  You’re not…you were just trying to do your job.  But I can’t afford to be caught, y’see…I know too much…and…”

 

Her voice cracked.  Turning away abruptly, she stumbled a few steps away and then emptied her stomach onto the grass.  After a few long moments of retching, she sniffed and wiped at her mouth with the back of her sleeve and then swiped at the tears on her cheeks with trembling fingers.  Her remorse was bracing; it reassured him, though he couldn’t have said why.  His own hands were far from clean...

 

He was drawn from his reverie by a sharp cry of dismay.

 

Dara had moved back toward the mausoleum, and was leaning down to examine something he could not see.  She reached down and when she straightened, her sword was in her hand.  Or at least, what was left of her sword. 

 

Her eyes were locked unblinkingly on the spot only inches above the hilt where the blade had sheared off.

 

He had not seen it happen, but he suspected that it had fallen victim to that single well-placed kick.  It must have caught the blade at just the right angle and snapped it in two.  

 

“Fucking hell!”

 

Her exclamation reclaimed his attention.  She was glaring at the spot he had occupied when he’d distracted her so thoughtlessly.  Shaking the mangled remains of her weapon in that direction, her narrowed eyes glared out into the shadows of the cemetery.  “If you're still out there, you absolute fucking wanker,” she snarled, “you owe me a fucking sword.”

 

V, seeing the fury vibrate through every inch of her body, dropped his head, acknowledging the truth in her words.  It was a lucky thing that her sword was the only price she’d had to pay for his carelessness—he could all too easily have gotten her killed into the bargain.

 

When he looked up again, she was gone.  Stepping out of the shadows once more, V caught sight of her long black coat disappearing into the darkness.  He nodded in her direction, holding one hand to his heart.  “My dear girl, should ever we happen to meet again, I shall do my level best to make good upon that debt.”

 


	4. Chapter Four

Dara was still furious over the loss of her sword the next day--especially when her mind started to wander further down the path of memory toward the other part of last night that she really did _not_ want to think about.  So, she focused.  She fumed.  She  _dwelled_.

 

She’d been given that sword six years prior as a gift for her twenty-first birthday by Will and Liz.  It was a sword that they’d had specially wrought for her by a highly skilled smith in the north of England who also happened to be a sympathizer with their cause.  A one of a kind piece, especially as the maker had since passed on.

 

Now, it was gone, and all because...

 

“Dara?  Are you even listening to me?”

 

Her attention snapped back to the present, eyes refocusing on the woman standing in front of her, hands on hips and eyes narrowed in a sharp glare.  “Sorry, Patricia...what was that?”

 

Patricia, a particularly snotty programming exec, rolled her eyes, thrusting her coffee mug into Dara’s face.  “Decaf, non-dairy mocha latte,” she barked, “and do please _try_ to remember the cinnamon this time, will you?”

 

Tempering the immediate response that sprung to mind, Dara forced a smile to her lips as she reached out to pluck the mug from the other woman.  “Right away, Patricia.” 

 

She had worked at the BTN for nearly a year, and it still took every shred of will power she had not to smack Ms. Patricia Harding in the face with her own mug.  But one did what one must—and Patricia, if left unappeased or provoked in any way, could make her life a living hell.

 

And as the electric bill was coming due and rent loomed on the horizon, Dara swallowed her pride, stashed her mail cart in a supply closet and headed downstairs to fetch Patricia her decaf, non-dairy mocha latte _with_ cinnamon.  A little menial labor was far preferable to unemployment, no matter how demeaning it might be.  On the way back up, the lift stopped several floors before her destination.  She grinned in welcome as one of her fellow gophers stepped through the doors, loaded down with an ridiculously large stack of interoffice delivery envelopes.  “Morning, Evey,” she said in greeting.

 

“Hey, Dara,” Evey Hammond said from behind her armful.  “Is it really still morning?”

 

“’Fraid so,” Dara commiserated.  “What floor?”

 

“42,” she replied.  “I need to deliver these to Mr. Dietrich.”

 

Dara pressed the button for her.  They fell silent, the small LCD screen above the panel showing the current news broadcast.  They were talking about the destruction of the Old Bailey—as if they could have tried to talk about anything else.

 

_‘On the lighter side of things, the crew responsible for the demolition of the Old Bailey wanted to give the old girl a grand, albeit improvised, send off.’_

_‘Although the demolition had been planned for some time, the music and the fireworks were, according to the crew chief, definitely not on the schedule.’_

 

“D’you believe that?”

 

Dara glanced over at Evey.  “Believe what?”

 

Evey nodded toward the screen.  “That it was a planned demolition?”

 

 _Careful,_ Dara reminded herself, _be very careful._   “D’you?”

 

A small shrug was all that Evey could manage with her arms as full as they were.  “I dunno.  Seems a little far-fetched to me…I mean,” she shook her head, “did you _see_ it?”

 

The lift came to a stop then, and Dara breathed a mental sigh of relief as the bell signaling the opening of the doors chimed.  “Gotta run,” she said, hoping that she sounded apologetic rather than relieved, “Patricia’s waiting on her coffee, and you know how she gets if it takes more than five minutes to get it to her.”

 

Evey gave her a sympathetic smile.  “Oh, believe me, I do know.  Last week, it took me fifteen minutes to get it up to her and she threatened to have me written up for incompetence.”

 

“Yeah, that’s Patricia all over,” Dara laughed.  “Have a good day.”

 

“You too.”

 

The doors of the lift shut again and Dara headed for Patricia’s office.  Once she had delivered the coffee—receiving a tongue lashing for not putting _enough_ cinnamon on it—she retreated as quickly as possible from what many in the office had quietly labeled the Lion’s Den.

 

Hastening back to the mail cart, she rechecked her list and pushed the laden cart into Stage 3 Wardrobe.  “Suzette...where d’you want these?”

 

Suzette Jennings, Wardrobe Coordinator for the station, glanced up from the bead she was reattaching with a frown, her glasses perched on the very tip of her nose.  “What are they?”

 

Dara shrugged.  “No idea—they’re just marked Stage 3.”

 

“Oh bloody hell,” Suzette snapped, handing over needle and thread to one of her assistants before rising.  She grabbed one of the boxes from the cart, tearing into it.  “Probably something for Prothero.” 

 

Her hand dipped into the box, pulling out...

 

Eyes widening with surprise, Dara stared down at the grinning face of Guy Fawkes.  Suspicion began to creep through her veins and she eyed the other boxes on the cart dubiously, memories of the night before still all too fresh in her mind.  The prospect of what the rest of the identical boxes contained left her feeling vaguely uneasy and more than a little twitchy.  He’d already blown up one landmark?  Who was to say that Jordan Tower wasn’t next?

 

“Bugger,” Suzette cursed, tossing the mask and cloak down on the cart.  “Just take them into the studio and set them off to the side,” she instructed, waving them away dismissively.  “There’s not enough room in here for that great mess when I don’t even know what they're for.”

 

Dara nodded, but said nothing.  Her instincts were screaming at her, telling her in no uncertain terms to get moving.  She dumped the cart where she’d been instructed and then all but ran through the halls toward the tiny cubbyhole that was the gophers “office”.  She stopped short at the front desk, noting with increasing dread the empty chair where Fred, the day guard, should have been seated.  Ultimately though, it was the snow on the security monitors behind the desk that turned her suspicions into a single, solid certainty—she needed to get the hell out of the building as quickly as possible.

 

 _“Attention employees_ ,” she jumped at the sound of the voice over the PA, “ _please proceed to the nearest exit.  The building must be evacuated.  Attention employees..._ ”

 

“Shit,” she muttered, sprinting the last few feet to the door of her office and ducking inside to grab her bag.  Heading back out the door, she glanced both ways up and down the hall—a hall suddenly full to bursting with nervous people.  Deciding to go with the flow, she dove into the throng, working her way toward the stairs.

 

By pure chance, her eye caught and held the gaze of a man standing at the end of the hall.  She recognized him immediately, so often had she seen his face on evening news reports—Eric Finch, Chief Inspector of Police.  It shouldn’t have been a problem.  In fact, it shouldn’t have mattered in the least that the Chief Inspector of Police was looking right at her—and on any other day, it wouldn’t have.  But today was not just any other day.  Today was the day after the night before.

 

And the night before, she realized with a sinking stomach, had changed everything.

 

The grim, undeniable truth of her epiphany was brought sharply home when the Chief Inspector raised his arm, pointing directly at her.  “There she is!”

 

“Fuck me,” she muttered, immediately spinning around and fighting her way back through the crowd.  Luckily, the officers now in pursuit had to fight through the same mess, giving her a not considerable, but adequate, head start.  Bolting around a corner, she darted into an empty store room, seeking a place to hide.  That hiding place ended up being beneath a table, on her stomach, with a few hastily rearranged boxes blocking her from view.

 

It was only a minute or so later that the door flew open, and the sound of footsteps echoed off the tile floor.  She held her breath.  Every muscle in her body went tense with anticipation.  Just one officer—she could handle one officer.

 

He wasn’t particularly thorough though, no doubt due to the sheer chaos of the current situation, and he left the room after only a cursory check.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Dara inched her way out, careful not to knock anything over or make any noise—the last thing she needed was to draw attention of any kind.

 

She was approaching the door, hand extended toward the knob, when the television mounted high on the wall of the office lost its signal, the latest Storm Saxon episode disappearing into a sea of static.  But then, only a moment later, an image clicked in, and her breath caught in her throat.

 

_V._

“ _Good morning, London_.”  His voice fell into her ear like honey, and she was astonished at how welcome the sound of it was.  It had only been hours since last she’d heard that voice, but to her strangely parched ears, it felt like days.  Especially strange considering how angry she was at him—but the ability to think about such things ground to an absolute halt as he continued, his words drowning out all other thoughts.

 

“ _Allow me first to apologize for this interruption. I do, like many of you, appreciate the comforts of every day routine—the security, the familiarity, the tranquility, the repetition. I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration—thereby those important events of the past usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle, a celebration of a nice_ _holiday—I thought we could mark this November the Fifth, a day that is sadly no longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat._

 

“ _There are of course those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now, orders are being shouted into telephones, and men with guns will soon be on their way. Why? Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the annunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and depression—and where once you had the freedom to object, think, and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission._

 

“ _How did this happen? Who is to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable.  But again, truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease—there were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in your panic you turned to the now High Chancellor, Adam Sutler. He promised you order, he promised you peace, and all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent._

 

“ _Last night, I sought to end that silence. Last night,_ I _destroyed the Old Bailey, to remind this country of what it has forgotten. More than four hundred years ago, a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice and freedom are more than words—they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you, then I would suggest you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked. But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand beside me one year from tonight, outside the gates of Parliament, and together we shall give them a fifth of November that shall never, ever be forgot_.”

 

The image of V disappeared then, lost to the hiss and pop of static.  Dara stared at the screen long after the image of the man had died away, frozen into immobility by the enormity of his message.

 

She’d gotten a glimpse of his intentions last night on the rooftops of London, and she had understood. 

 

But this…

 

The true expanse of his plan was now laid before her, and it painted an intricate pattern that sent a low tremor of anticipation through her.  She’d seen the death of Norsefire in the set of his shoulders last night, and now, she could hear all the hope for the future in the cultured resonance of his voice.  A thousand questions that only he would be able to answer ran roughshod thorough her mind, almost dizzying in their intensity—questions that she would have loved to ask, but doubted that she would ever get the opportunity to.

 

“Stop right there!”

 

The shout sounded from the hallway outside, making Dara jump.  She was at the door in an instant, pulling it open quietly, peeking out to see what was going on—and what she saw was a detective, gun drawn and aimed unerringly at V’s back.

 

She almost laughed.  She didn’t believe in fate, but this was almost too convenient to be called anything else.

 

“Get your hands up and turn around!”

 

“I must say that I’m astonished by the response time of London’s finest,” V’s voice was perfectly calm. He turned toward the officer, hands raised obediently.  “I had not expected you to be quite so Johnny-on-the-spot.”

 

“We were already here when you got here,” the officer said, almost smug.  “Bad luck, chummy.”

 

Generally speaking, Dara considered herself to be a rational, levelheaded woman.  She had been trained to keep her head low, to steer clear of any situations that could reveal her as more than just the extraordinarily ordinary young woman that she appeared to be.  At that moment however, she found herself making a decision that didn’t just fly in the face of that training—it disregarded it entirely. 

 

_Oh bloody hell…in for a penny, in for a pound.  They’re already after me as it is._

 

She stepped out the door, eyes meeting V’s as she moved silently down the hall.  Somehow, she could sense the nod he gave her, though he didn’t move at all.

 

In fact, he gave no outward sign at all that she was there, other than cocking his head ever so slightly to the side.  “Oh, I don’t know about that.  Luck, you see, has rather a funny way of changing—and always when you least expect it.”

 

Dara’s hand clamped down on the detective’s shoulder at that moment, spinning him around as she prepared to deliver what she intended to be a knock out punch.  _Intended_ being the operative word.  Instead of the solid strike she'd meant to dish out, the punch landed as nothing more than a glancing blow to the nose that left the detective reeling, but still conscious…and now, on the defensive.  He swung out blindly before she could react, catching her just above the eye with the butt of his pistol. 

 

Pain exploded through her skull and she staggered backwards with a grunt.  Her vision had gone blurry and she blinked furiously.  The haze cleared just enough for her to see the detective, blood dripping from his nose, draw down on her.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she groaned, seeing the inevitable a moment before it became reality.

 

She felt the tearing pain in her left shoulder almost before the sound of the pistol firing registered in her ears, and she let out a wail of agony as she slumped against the wall.  A moment later, the detective dropped to the floor in front of her, finally— _finally_ —unconscious.  She slid to the floor, the pain in her head combining with the pain in her shoulder and leaving her hovering on the edge of consciousness. 

 

She heard her name called, but it sounded far away and fuzzy.  Instinct forced her head up to answer the summons though, and she had just enough time to see V moving toward her before she gave herself up to the encroaching darkness.  Her head lolled to the side and, with a tiny whimper, she followed the detective into oblivion.

 


	5. Chapter Five

The first thing that Dara noticed when she woke was the music—the soft, sultry tones of some long forgotten jazz singer rolling dulcetly across her ears.  Her interest in the piece lasted only as long as it took for the throbbing pain in her shoulder to work its way past the last vestiges of fog blurring her waking mind.  Grimacing, she hauled herself upright with her good arm, only noticing the dull pain in her head once she sat up.  Leaning back against the headboard, she lifted her hand to probe the tender area above her right eye, noting with some surprise the butterfly plaster taped over the wound. 

 

That, she soon discovered, was not the only evidence that someone had taken great care in patching her up.  The left sleeve of her blouse had been cut away and there was a large, white bandage on her shoulder.  And a quick survey of the room around her left little doubt about the identity of the responsible party.

 

Stacks of books lined the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling—and the few odd pieces of furniture were equally as laden with leather bound volumes.  Indeed, the only surface clear of them was the bed she was laying on.  No such room existed in her own home, and she clearly was neither in jail nor in hospital…which left only one alternative.

 

Gingerly easing herself to the edge of the bed, she swung her legs around and stood slowly, sock-clad feet sinking into the surprisingly lush carpet beneath them.  It was slow going, her various aches and pains throbbing more and more with each step she took—but, refusing to be deterred, Dara made her way out the door of the room and down the corridor on the other side of it.  Using the music as her guide, she shuffled down the hallway until finally she stepped out into a large, open chamber. 

 

She froze there, just inside the great, vast expanse of the room, nearly blinded by the vista that had opened up before her.  The room was a treasure trove.  The walls, the floors and every corner of the room were absolutely dripping with cultural riches.  Paintings and furniture and rugs and sculptures and innumerable other bits and bobs of times long past—all of them items that had been denounced by Norsefire as the trappings of a vice-ridden society, summarily confiscated and _allegedly_ destroyed.

 

As she took in Rembrandts and Renoirs, baroque tables and Victorian chaises, Buddhist statues and Hindu idols, a smile bloomed upon her lips—she’d never been happier to use the word allegedly as a qualifier before in her life.

 

The song changed then, slipping from smoky and sad to a livelier, faster tune from an entirely different era.  Her smile widened as she immediately recognized the opening strains of David Bowie’s Changes, and she began to walk slowly toward the old Wurlitzer tucked neatly into an alcove.  Upon reaching it, murmuring the words of the song beneath her breath, she lifted a finger to lightly trace over the numbered keys of the jukebox, watching the record spin beneath the glass dome that crowned it.

 

“Turn and face the strange.”

 

She jumped at the unexpected voice that sounded from behind her, quoting the lyrics even as they were sung.  Spinning around quickly, her muscles automatically going rigid with fighting tension, she hissed as a particularly violent stab of pain shot through her shoulder.  Black-gloved hands were upon her in an instant, steadying her with a gentle, but firm grip. 

 

“You should not be up,” V intoned gravely, a touch of admonishment in the words.

 

“I’m fine,” she bit out, easing away from his grasp now that the pain had abated.

 

“Do not be ridiculous,” he returned.  “You have been unconscious for nearly forty-eight hours and while the wound on your head is mostly superficial and already healing nicely, the one in your shoulder is quite serious.  I shall reiterate my earlier rebuke—you should not be up.”

 

Catching onto the only words in that sentence that she considered important, Dara shut her eyes on a frown, wincing against another strong stab of pain.  “I’m sorry.  I must be hearing things.”  Her eyes reopened.  “I could’ve sworn you just said I’ve been here for... ”

 

“Two days, yes,” V interrupted, hands folded in front of him.  “Two days since you came to my aide at Jordan Tower and received those unfortunate and highly regrettable wounds in return,” he sighed, “and three since my rashness nearly inflicted far more grievous injuries.”

 

There was an apology implicit in his words, and a healthy dose of penitence along side that.  Nevertheless, she bristled at the reminder of his interference, seeing again the broken halves of her beloved sword.  “The cemetery,” she said, voice hard.  “You followed me, nearly got me killed,” she paused, expression turning vicious, “and my sword is _broken_.”

 

The accusations, leveled so cuttingly, stung.  Lowering his eyes, V shook his head.  “To the latter two charges, I have no defense.  However, I harbor no regrets toward the first—I _had_ to follow you.  Having delivered you home safely, my suspicions could not help but be aroused when you left again so quickly.  I simply could not risk the possibility that you were moving to betray me.”

 

“Betray you?”  Dara’s expression turned incredulous.  “Betray you how exactly?  I’d known you for barely more than an hour.  I don’t know anything specific about your plans and I know absolutely nothing about you yourself except that you wear a mask and that you call yourself V.”

 

“Even the tiniest detail could be devastating if relayed to the correct ear,” V returned, all calm in the face of her mounting temper.  “As I said, I could not risk the betrayal.”

 

In light of what he’d already done and moreso because of what he still planned to do, his wariness was logical.  But Dara was in no mood for logic.  “I didn’t give you any reason not to trust me.”

 

“No, you did not,” the words were both admittance and affirmation.  “Indeed, my every instinct _was_ to trust you.”

 

“Then why didn’t you?”

 

A long, pregnant pause fell hard upon the heels of that last question.  Dara, eyes still flashing fire, stared with impatient expectance while V continued to stare right back at her.

 

“I have learned through hard experience that trust cannot simply be given—it must be earned.  Only the worst sort of fool would have allowed himself to place such confidence in anyone after so short an acquaintance.”

 

Again, there was unmistakable logic in his words, and this time, Dara could not, in good conscience, ignore it.  She sighed, her anger melting away to leave her feeling curiously deflated.  “Can’t argue with you there,” she murmured, eyes dropping away from his.  “And if I’m being honest, I likely would’ve followed me too if I were you.”

 

Her words eased a knot of tension that V hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying, acting almost as a validation of his actions and leaving him feeling intensely relieved.  Of course, there were still the rest of his actions to answer for…and the rest was so very much worse.

 

“Be that as it may,” he said, “my behavior in the cemetery was inexcusable.  I have fought enough battles of my own to know better than to do what I did.  I can only beg your forgiveness for the lapse and tell you sincerely how very grateful I am that you suffered no injury because of it.”

 

The fervent earnestness in his voice warmed her, leaving her feeling far more generous than she had only moments before.  “Well, it might not be the best I’ve heard, but it’ll do, I suppose.  Apology accepted.”

 

As if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, V straightened, the chin of the mask lifting as he sucked in a quick breath.  “Thank you for that,” he said gratefully.  “It somehow means a very great deal to me.”

 

Tension filled the space between them, making Dara distinctly uncomfortable.  Shifting her gaze away from him, she grasped at the first—and most obvious—subject available for discussion.  “What is this place anyway?  Looks like a museum.”

 

The change in subject was jarring, but V was as eager for it as she seemed to be.  “And so it is, in its way.  My own, private museum, if you will.  I call it the Shadow Gallery.”

 

“I can’t believe all this survived the purges,” she mused, considering.  “Especially the religious stuff—that was the first stuff they confiscated.  Where’d you get it all?”

 

“Here and there,” he commented vaguely, relaxing as they moved into much safer waters of conversation.  He reached out to draw a finger along the flank of a bronze horse.  “And you are correct about it having been confiscated. The vaults of the Ministry of Objectionable Materials are a veritable cornucopia of just such treasures as these.”

 

A single black brow arched high upon her forehead as Dara digested that bit of information.  “You stole all of this from the Ministry of Objectionable Materials?”

 

“Certainly not,” V shot back, sounding faintly annoyed by the accusation.  “Stealing implies ownership—you cannot steal from the censor.  I merely reclaimed these treasures—rescued them from the metaphorical dust bin, if you will.”

 

“I think that might just be the best rationalization I’ve heard in a very long time,” Dara said with a half-smile.  “Don’t quite know whether to be impressed or scared.”

 

The mask half-turned back toward her.  “If I had my pick of the two,” he said lightly, “I should much prefer the former—no matter how appropriate the latter may be.”

 

Dara’s smile widened.  “Well far be it from me to contradict the man who’s saved my sorry self twice now—you can count me thoroughly impressed, V.”  She paused, the glint of light on steel catching her eye.  Moving forward, she fingered the hilt of a sword lying upon the polished mahogany surface of the Edwardian occasional table beside him.

 

“I hope it is to your liking,” V’s voice hummed beside her.  “I recognized the debt I owed you almost immediately, though I saw little opportunity to make good on it.  However, with the change in circumstances, I thought it only right that I replace what my folly cost you.”

 

Running an expert eye over the sword, she quickly recognized that not only was it of the highest quality Toledo steel, but also of extraordinary craftsmanship.  This was no modern piece—this was a weapon that had been crafted when swordsmithing had been at its zenith.  “This is for me?”

 

The pleased astonishment in her voice made him smile.  “Indeed it is, my dear.  I did not know your preferences, but I thought that the weight and style of this particular weapon seemed ideal for a lady of your skill.”

 

Gently lifting the blade from the table with her good arm, she gave it an experimental flick.  The balance was perfect, the weight—as V had noted—ideal for her arm.  Twisting it up to examine the hilt closer, she nodded appreciatively.  It was delicately wrought from the same steel as the sword and could only have been the work of a master cutler.  All together, it was one of the most beautiful weapons she’d ever laid eyes on.

 

“Really, you shouldn’t’ve gone to the trouble,” she said at last, turning to him with a smile, “but thanks.  This is a fantastic sword, V.” She looked back at the sword again and her smile turned into a peevish frown.  “Still can’t believe I lost mine though,” she snipped, “and to a bloody _cop_ no less.” 

 

Instantly perking up, V leapt upon the opportunity that her words afforded.  “Yes…about that,” he waited until she had turned again to look at him.  “I confess that while I have my suspicions about your purpose that night, I hesitate to entertain them, lest they prove false.  Might I ask…”

 

“…what I was doing in a cemetery at night?” Dara completed the question for him.  “Yeah…sure you can ask.”

 

There was a long pause, during which Dara stared at V expectantly.  Finally, V gave a low chuckle.  Stubborn girl—she was going to be difficult about it.  “What were you doing in a cemetery at night?”

 

Dara sighed inwardly.  She’d been hoping to avoid this subject. 

 

_I’m gonna have to lie_. 

 

She hadn’t had a chance to discuss the situation with the group yet, and she was far too loyal to break their code of secrecy—even for him.  To tell him the truth would be to give him power over them; and she wasn’t willing to relinquish such power into his keeping yet. 

 

Bothersome, that thought.  Bothersome and troubling in a way that few thoughts had ever been before—too many implications peeked out from behind that _yet_ ; implications that frightened her simply because they _didn’t_ frighten her.  _Too much, too fast,_ her mind whispered, almost panicked.  She needed space to breathe, room to think, and this labyrinthine lair of his seemed unlikely to afford either.

 

“Might I offer an observation, my dear, before you answer?”

 

His voice surprised her, coming from much closer than she had expected.  So lost in thought had she been that he’d moved to her side without her even noticing.  Resisting the urge to take a step away from him, Dara met the black-screened eyes of the mask, determined not to show her inner turmoil.  “What?”

 

“It is my experience,” he said slowly, the words obviously chosen with care, “that the truth is quick on the tongue.  Only lies require deep contemplation before being dispensed.”

 

Angling now narrowed eyes up at him sharply, annoyance chipped away at the other, more disturbing emotions that had been plaguing her.  Suddenly, she knew just what tack to take.  “You want the truth?”

 

“I would not have asked the question if I did not.”

 

“Then the truth it is,” she said, her chin coming up defiantly.  “But first, V, I want you to take off your mask.”

 

His reaction was immediate, and exactly what she expected.  His hands, which had been clasped calmly before him fell away to his sides, and he took an ungraceful, almost stumbling step away from her.  “What?”

 

Dara shrugged carelessly.  “You heard me.  If you want the truth from me, then I want the truth from you.  Show me your face.”

 

She had thrown him, she could tell.  In the nearly infinitesimal length of time that she’d known this man, he had never lacked the right words at the right time, always having an answer at the ready for any and every question.  But now, his silence told her plainly that he had been wholly unprepared for such a turnabout.

 

“I have offered you no lies,” he said at last, and the words were a thin veneer of anger over a much deeper undercurrent of absolute dread.

 

“Sure you have,” Dara disagreed.  “There’re lots of different kinds of lies, V—and a lie of omission’s still a lie.  If you wanna know my secrets, then I wanna know yours.”

 

He took another awkward step away, his entire posture screaming out his desire for escape.  “Dara…please…”

 

“Please what?  It’s a simple enough equation—show me your face, and I’ll tell you why I was in that cemetery.  Tit for tat, yeah?  Seems the only fair way to do the thing.”

 

She waited, watching him and feeling his desperation though he gave no outward sign of being discomposed in the slightest.  Finally, she decided she’d made her point.

 

Blowing out a breath, she lifted a hand to brush an errant strand of hair from her cheek.  “Relax, V,” she said, “I’m not gonna press the issue.  Go on and keep your secrets.”  She paused, giving him a pointed look.  “Just like I’ll keep mine, yeah?”

 

Still nearly rigid with tension, V nonetheless managed a small nod.  “Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face—terror, the human form divine, and secrecy the human dress.”

 

Appropriate, that quote...but only in the context of the poem as a whole.  A good thing she knew her Blake, or she probably wouldn’t have known how to respond.  “Yeah, but that’s only half the story isn’t it?” she said quietly.  “Because if I recall correctly, mercy has a human heart; pity, a human face; love, the human form divine; and peace, the human dress.”

 

“Of mercy, love and peace, I shall offer no opinion—believe of them what you will,” he shot back, real anger resonating from the words.  “But pity...n _ever_ speak to me of pity, Dara Turner.  It is a word and a concept that I find singularly abhorrent.”

 

Her own ire rising up to meet his, Dara glared at him.  “If you wanna go and be particular about it, _I_ didn’t say anything about pity,” she retorted, “Blake did.  And don’t you dare tell me what I can or can’t say.  I’ll say whatever I bloody well please, whenever I bloody well please—it’s a right I don’t have in the every day world because of Norsefire; I _refuse_ to let the same be true where they can’t hear me.”

 

V went very still then, the allegation inherent in her words cutting.  “You can muffle the drum,” he said after a moment spent collecting himself, his voice rough and reedy, “and you can loosen the strings of a lyre, but who shall command the skylark not to sing?”  Fawkes’ grin turned toward the floor.

 

She didn’t recognize the words, but she assumed that it was another quote.  If she’d known she’d one day find herself in this situation, she might have taken more than just the one lit class during her brief flirtation with higher education.  V, on the other hand, seemed to be a never ending font of literary references.  If nothing else, he had one hell of a memory.  And while she admired both his apparent brilliance and his stunning powers of recall, she also found herself violently irritated by his constant retreat behind the words of others. 

 

Huffing, she turned sharply on her heel, her pain completely forgotten in the face of their exchange.  She’d made it nearly to the hallway before his voice, still quiet, though strangely anxious stopped her.  “Where are you going?”

 

Half turning back toward him, she shot him a glare.  “To get my things,” she answered frostily.  “It’s time I was going.”

 

“Can I ask where?”

 

She paused, frowned.  “Where d’you think?  Home, of course.”

 

“Do you really think that wise?  They are looking for you, Dara…just as they are looking for me.  They know where you work—they will certainly know where you live.”

 

She hadn’t thought of that—and suddenly remembered the certainty that had swept over her even as she’d rushed down the hallway outside her office toward that detective.  “Oh bollocks,” she spat, rolling her eyes in disgust, “I hadn’t even thought of that.  Why’d I attack that detective?  What the bloody hell was I thinking?”

 

“You did only what you thought was right.”  V paused, clearly weighing his words carefully.  “It was a good part of the reason why I simply could not, in good conscience, leave you there.  I brought you here, to my home, because it was the only place that I knew would be safe.”

 

Pinching the bridge of her nose wearily, Dara fought to keep her emotions under control.  “And now I’m stuck here.”

 

“I am sorry, my dear,” he said, sounding almost sad, “but I could think of no alternative.  Had I left you there, you would even now be in one of Creedy’s interrogation cells.”  A pause.  “Believe me, Dara,” he said, voice strained, “I did not want this for either of us.”

 

Her head lifted, blue eyes piercing his even through the mask.  “How long?”

 

“Only until the Fifth—after that, I no longer think it will matter.”

 

“The Fifth.”  Her lips thinned.  “You mean next November,” she said dully.  “An entire year.”

 

He sighed.  “Forgive me, my dear…but I did not know what else to do.”

 

The helpless confusion in that confession calmed any anger she might have otherwise felt.  She could not deny that he had, by far, chosen the best possible course for her while she was unable to do so herself.  And it was not so much the idea of spending a year in his company that disturbed her…it was the idea that Will and Liz would have no idea what had happened to her that was utterly unacceptable.  No, not unacceptable—impossible!  She simply could not disappear for an entire year without telling them _something_.  Spurred by that knowledge, she made a quick decision.

 

“Fine,” she said.  “I can agree to that.  Like you said—where else can I go?  I won’t put my friends in danger by asking them to take me in and my flat is definitely off limits to me now.”  She sighed.  “But I need to leave for a few hours. I can’t just disappear for an entire year without taking care of a few things first.”

 

“While I understand the difficult and all together unenviable position you find yourself in, my dear, I am afraid that I must deny your request.  It is a risk I cannot allow.”

 

“Deny my request,” Dara repeated, her voice cold.  She narrowed her eyes in the sharpest look he’d yet received from her.  “Seems you don’t quite get it,” she drawled, and there was fury in her gaze now.  “I was doing you the courtesy of telling you what I’m gonna do, V.  I wasn’t asking your permission.”

 

He shook his head.  “You were not listening, Dara...it is a risk...”

 

“Risk?” she barked. “My whole life is risk, V.”

 

An interesting admission.  It added a bit more certainty to his suspicions about her, but ultimately did nothing to change his mind.  “Be that as it may, my dear—I was not speaking of the risk such foolishness posed to your own person, but rather, the risk that it poses to my purpose.”

 

“Last I checked, we’ve already been over this—you’ve got no reason not to trust me.  And while I can appreciate that you’ve gotta keep both your plan and your location secret, I’m not gonna let you make me a hostage because of it.”

 

“And how exactly would you stop me if I chose to do so?”

 

The question fell into the room like a boulder into a pond, sending shockwaves through the sudden stillness.

 

“If I didn’t already know that staying here’s the only option I’ve got, you would’ve just made up my mind not to.”  Dara leveled a look of pure disgust at him.  “It’s called hypocrisy, V; I’m sure you’ve got a dictionary lying about the place somewhere, so look it up while I’m gone, yeah?”  She turned away again, disappearing down the hall.

 

V stared after her, her parting jibe, painful to the extreme, still stinging his ears and his conscience.  In his mind, a war raged—the cold calculation of his reason opposed diametrically to the unfamiliar vulnerability of his budding admiration for her.  To let her go, even for a few hours, would be to not only risk every plan he had…it would also mean a bestowal of his trust upon her.  How could he possibly consider such a step? 

 

But conversely, how could he possibly hold her here against her will?  It would be, as she pointed out, the epitome of hypocrisy.  What sort of freedom fighter would he be if he, in turn, robbed her of her freedom?

 

Well, there was that decision made.

 

V dropped heavily into the elegant Federal style chair tucked away in the alcove opposite the Wurlitzer.  When she emerged, he would show her to the door.  This place would be a haven to her, not a prison—he’d had his belly full of prisons for this lifetime. 

 

Yes, he would show her out.  He would watch her walk away, the fate of his revolution in her hands—and he would trust her to return once she had done what needed doing.  It would be one of the hardest things he had ever endured, but endure it he would.  Because, deep down, beneath a lifetime of pain, anger, hatred and distrust—he did so _want_ to believe in her.

 

It was foreign.  It was alien.  It was foolish—yes, above all, completely and utterly foolish.  But it was the _right_ decision to make.

 

“My mind misgives some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin this fearful date,” he whispered into the now oppressively silent room.  An image of pale blue eyes, flashing indignantly danced across his mind’s eye, and his lips curved into a wry smile behind the mask.  “But he that hath steerage of my course…direct my sail.”


End file.
